


Banquo

by TheRealFailWhale



Category: Macbeth - Shakespeare
Genre: Established Relationship, Lovers, M/M, Prophecy, References to Shakespeare, Scotland, War, Witches, banquo is an angel, macbeth totally thought of it first, stop blaming LM
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-30
Updated: 2020-02-08
Packaged: 2021-02-19 07:02:26
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,817
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22473730
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheRealFailWhale/pseuds/TheRealFailWhale
Summary: You have heard the story.Made famous by a man who took the truth and made it his own.But he was not there. He did not know the man or the woman at the center of the story. Did not love them. Could not have understood their choices.He changed my part in this tale. Put me in the background, a victim only.I was so much more.
Relationships: Banquo (Macbeth)/Macbeth
Comments: 11
Kudos: 14





	1. when the hurly burly's done

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! I've been sitting on this retelling for a while, thanks to all the awesome Shakespeare retellings out in the world today. Macbeth is one of my faves and I'm constantly furious that LM gets such a bad rap (not entirely deserved, imo). I have it plotted out but we'll see how long I actually commit to it :D

The wind tore over the heath, whipping the tall grass that remained untrampled. Corpses crushed much of it, blood seeping into the stalks and damp ground. I watched as soldiers sorted through those on the ground, as the birds circled the bodies of our enemies, the bodies we would burn last.

“Will you walk with me?”

I looked up, shading my eyes with a blood-stained hand against the late sun. He stood before me, tall, strong, as bloody as myself. But his white teeth shone through the crimson in his beard as he smiled down at me.

“Of course, Macbeth,” I said as I stood and walked beside him, grinning in response despite the scent of death that pervaded the field where our battle had been fought. I followed as he led the way toward the forest, some yards from where I’d sat.

“You outdid yourself today,” I told him, keeping pace with his long stride. “I’ve never seen a man cleaved in two, from neck to groin. It was an impressive blow.”

“You flatter me, Banquo,” Macbeth replied with a grin, shoving me gently enough that I barely stumbled.

“Always,” I agreed truthfully. “But that doesn’t make it any less true. You’ll be famous for that kill, for the entire battle. I’m sure the king will be pleased.”

We had reached the treeline but Macbeth kept going, stepping over bracken and crushed leaves, parting branches as they presented themselves to him.

“Of course he will be pleased,” he said, pausing to hold aside a branch for me. “I killed his enemies, just as I’m expected to do.”

“Yes,” I spoke patiently, still following him. “But you know as well as I do that not all his thanes do their duties as well as you.”

“What, you think Duncan will remove one thane in favor of giving me another holding?” Macbeth paused in his surprise, turning to face me. I looked into his red face, seeing the pale skin that lay beneath.

“I wouldn’t be surprised.”

There was a brief pause, and then he grinned at me. I knew his ambitions, knew that he would be proud to be named thane.

“Maybe you’re right,” he said as he clapped me on the shoulder. “But for now, let’s bathe. I’m horrendously sticky.”

“Where are we supposed to bathe in the woods?” I asked blankly as he took off in front of me, forcing me to run after him. I could hear his laughter echo back to me and could not help the smile that the sound brought me.

I chased after him, leaping over fallen logs and dense piles of wet leaves. The trees around us were beginning to thin, and I could see sunlight filtering through the canopy ahead. At last I came to his side and we stared at the large, clear pond before us. How he’d known it was here I couldn’t guess, but the water stretched out clean, and I could see that it would be deep enough to submerge ourselves in the assuredly cold water.

“How did you--” I began, but Macbeth was already pulling off his crusted armor and the clothes beneath. I shook my head but followed suit, his eagerness infecting me. The blood from the battle was so thick on his skin that there were clear demarcations where his armor had covered him, with a few trickles of red running down from his neckline. Reaching out, I traced one of these lines down his chest, scratching off the dried blood beneath my fingernail. His shiver brought a sly smile to my lips, but before I could say anything, he pulled me to him, wrapping me in his solid arms and pressing his mouth to mine.

I let him hold me, sealing our bodies together as I pulled him close. His skin was slick with sweat in spite of the cold air, and I dipped my finger in the trailing scars that covered his back, evidence of battles lost and won. As our lips pushed together, I could taste the blood on his skin, and knew he could taste the blood on mine. It was a familiar sensation, morbid though it was to mingle such bloodshed with desire.

As our faces came apart, he raised a hand to push through my tangled hair, bringing his forehead to mine.

“I am glad you are safe,” he whispered to me, ghosting a kiss on my lips.

With open eyes I could see the blood buried in the lines of his face, awaiting the water to wash it away.

“And I you, my love,” I assured him, pulling up to press my mouth to his forehead. “But you’re filthy and desperately need a bath.”

Macbeth broke into a laugh, squeezing me in his arms again before releasing me. He spread his arms wide and bowed low to me. “As my lord commands.”

With that, he jumped into the pond, yelping as the icy water covered his feet, calves, thighs. Teeth chattering, he took a deep breath and plunged. Bracing myself, I joined him, my own gasps filling the clearing as he spluttered to the surface again and shook out his gingery hair, flinging cold droplets in a circle. I dove toward him and submerged myself in the water, willing the blood to wash away. When I came up for air, Macbeth was hurriedly washing himself, using his nails to scrape crimson off his hands. 

Within minutes we were as clean as was possible with nothing but our hands to serve our purpose. I was first to abandon the water, unwilling to remain any longer once I realized I would get no cleaner. Macbeth followed and grabbed for me as we reached the shore, clutching me close for warmth. I smiled, pressing my cheek to his shoulder as together we shivered in the clearing. We waited as the water dripped off of us to the sandy bank. 

I relished his skin on mine. There were hard ridges of scars that pressed into me, but I knew them as well as my own and hardly noticed them anymore. In the days leading up to this battle, we had little time together. As commander, Macbeth had been required at planning meetings and drills, while I practiced with the men assigned to me. Our time at night, sharing the warmth of his tent, was a relief but not enough of the closeness we were used to while at home. But now, we held each other loosely, glad at last to have these moments alone.

A particularly fierce shiver ran through Macbeth and drew a chuckle from me. “Time for clothes, then,” I said, pulling away reluctantly. He stole a quick kiss before relinquishing his hold on me, and we dragged on the sweat-and-blood stiff clothing we’d discarded.

“How long until we return home?” I asked, buckling my armor on again. The scent of blood still lingered, but it was lessened now that it was gone from my skin.

“Two days, I think,” Macbeth replied. He pulled on his boots, the creaking leather protesting the lack of oil. “We must account for and bury our dead, and then burn the rest. It will take time.”

“Will you write to her? She’ll want to know that we’ll be back so soon. I don’t think anyone expected this to be over so quickly.”

Macbeth nodded with a sigh, standing straight and stretching his arms wide. “I will. The lady will be glad to have us back, I think.”

“Of course she will,” I asserted. “She’s always somewhat listless when both of us are gone.”

“True, my Banquo, true,” Macbeth agreed. “Come, it’s time we returned to camp.”

We walked back through the forest, following the path we’d taken. There was space enough for us to go side by side, our hands clasped for comfort and warmth. His calloused fingers rubbed against mine, and I again thanked god that he was mine.

“Does this look familiar to you?” Macbeth asked, voice breaking through my ruminations. I looked around us. The ground beneath us still showed signs of passage, but I could not see any other sign that we had been this way. 

“We must have followed a different path,” I shrugged, turning to pull him back the way we’d come. “Let’s go back and find where we diverged.”

“Wait…”

I looked back to him and saw a strange expression on his face. He was staring ahead, eyes going down the path we were on.

“What is it?” I came back to his side and followed his gaze. I saw nothing.

“I think there’s someone there,” he said quietly. “Come.”

Macbeth released my hand and moved on, stepping carefully to stay silent. I hesitated only a moment before I mimicked his actions, avoiding the twigs that would reveal our presence. Whereas the pond’s clearing was bright with the falling sun, now the forest grew dark, with just a dim promise of light ahead. A sense of dread crept into my stomach, but Macbeth seemed sure of his course, so I pushed aside the feeling and continued in his wake.

With a suddenness that felt surreal, the trees before us broke and a new clearing spread out. The sky above was dark, darker than I had expected. I could see a few stars dotting that darkness, but no moon. I recalled that it was only three days to the full moon.

In the center of the clearing was a small fire, not large enough to cook, barely large enough for warmth. Gathered around the flames were three shapes, and it was only their long hair, falling down the ragged cloaks, that told me they were women.

“Hail to thee, thane of Glamis,” called one of the women, in a voice that spoke of rock sliding upon rock.

“Hail to thee, thane of Cawdor,” said another, whose voice was that of distant thunder.

“All hail, Macbeth, thou shalt be king hereafter,” spoke the last, crackling as the flames around which they hunched.

I stood behind Macbeth, distrust and fear welling up inside me.

“Who are you?” Macbeth called out to them, making no move to approach their fire. 

“Macbeth,” I whispered cautiously, willing him to hear the urgency in my voice. He did not turn.

“Hail,” the three spoke together, voices clamoring together in a discordant noise, faces still turned to the fire.

“Lesser than Macbeth, and greater,” said the voice of rocks.

“Not so happy, yet much happier,” spoke the voice of thunder.

“Thou shalt get kings, though thou be none. So, all hail, Macbeth and Banquo!” cried the voice of fire.

“Banquo and Macbeth, all hail!” Again their voices sang together, each drowning out the other yet not at all.

As we watched, the women rose from the fire and walked toward the trees, away from us without glancing our way.

“Stay!” Macbeth called out, taking a step toward them. I seized his arm and held him back, even as the women disappeared into the distant trees, their fire dimming to ash.

With their absence, Macbeth stared at the fire’s embers. Slowly, I released him, and to my relief he made no move to follow them.

“Macbeth?” I said, when minutes had passed in silence, his eyes fixed on nothing.

With a start, he turned to me, dark eyes staring out of his pale face. I took a step forward and carefully cupped his face in my hand, his beard still damp against my skin.

“What are you thinking, love?” I whispered, urging him to return from wherever he had gone. Almost absently, he raised his own hand and placed it over mine. It was cold as ice.

A few more moments passed before his eyes focused on my face, and when they did he smiled almost wearily.

“So foul and fair a day I have not seen.”


	2. take the reason prisoner

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> immediately following the witches' prophecy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> title taken from 1.2.187.

I carefully led Macbeth to our encampment. Several soldiers made to approach us once we returned to the field, but I told them their thane had an important missive to send and they nodded understanding. Whether they believed it a message for his lady or the king, I couldn’t say. Both were necessary at that moment, though I doubted his ability to accomplish either.

Macbeth allowed me to guide him to the camp, to our tent, to a standing position in the center of a simple soldier’s quarters. I began removing his armor, on which the blood was well and truly dried now. He was silent under my hands, though I tried to engage him in idle conversation.

At last, when his armor was off and he stood in his underclothes, I addressed what I suspected he was thinking of.

“So,” I said, sitting on a low stool near our bedrolls. “You will be king.”

Hearing the words aloud, Macbeth startled visibly, face still pale from shock and cold. He seemed to notice where we were, that his armor was gone. He passed a hand over his face, combing through his beard, and sat heavily on the stool opposite me and stared.

“And you will beget kings,” he answered with a low chuckle, the expression bringing some color to his face again.

“We’ll have to tell Fleance,” I said, smiling with relief that he was speaking again.

“He’ll hardly believe you.” Macbeth sighed as he drew his arms to rest on his knees. “I can hardly begin to believe it myself. I admit I am somewhat settled to know that you saw them as well. If I had been alone, I would have put it down to--to a hallucination brought on by the aftermath of battle. Or the cold.”

“You have never been prone to fever after battle,” I pointed out, mirroring his position. “But I admit, it was a strange encounter. Perhaps we found three women intent on disarming soldiers.”

“Quite possible,” he agreed. “I know Edine would find such play amusing.”

“They did know who we are though, which is odd…”

“Not especially. A thane and his right-hand man? Unless they live in those woods, they would know us.” Macbeth was regaining his color, ruddy cheeks coloring the skin over his beard. “Now, I believe you had a thought at the pond that I interrupted, which was unkind of me. Would you like to continue it?”

Macbeth looked up at me from under his astonishing lashes, thicker than a woman’s, and my smile grew. If he could think of such things, he was certainly feeling more himself.

“Indeed, my lord.” I rose and came to stand before him, forcing him to stare up at me with dark eyes. “You may earn my forgiveness by aiding me out of my armor. For a start.”

\--

Night was fully upon us when I removed myself from our tent in search of fire and food. As commander, Macbeth’s quarters were somewhat removed from the soldiers’, giving us a semblance of privacy. The other soldiers were distant enough that any conversations we may share were unlikely to be overheard. However, it was my duty, as the thane’s second, to answer for his needs. 

I had not gone far from the tent when I saw a messenger approach, accompanied by two of the men assigned to guard duty.

“Hail, Banquo!” the messenger called, and a sudden chill ran down my spine as the greeting brought the memory of the forest women back to mind.

“Aye, who comes?” I asked cautiously, unable to keep my private fears from surfacing.

“Messengers from the king,” said one of the guards. “They have words for Lord Macbeth.”

From the shadows beside the guard emerged two figures whom I recognized.

“You’re up late, Banquo,” Ross observed as he came forward, Angus just behind him. “We expected to wait till morning.”

“My lord and I were discussing the events of the battle,” I said cautiously. It was no secret that Macbeth and I were close, but the widespread knowledge of our connection would cause problems for us both.

“And what a battle it was!” Angus cried, stepping up and offering his hand. I took it, seeing no polite way to refuse. “We heard such things that could hardly be believed!”

“Indeed.” Ross smiled and adjusted a long box that was strapped to his back. “Is Lord Macbeth prepared to receive us? If he is awake, we can present our tidings now.”

“Of course,” I said slowly, recalling the state in which I left him. “If you’ll but give me a moment, I will tell him you are here.”

Angus and Ross acquiesced, and I went ahead to our tent. Pushing inside, I was glad I entered first. Macbeth was still sprawled on the bedrolls, a contented grin on his face as he lay with his eyes closed.

“Macbeth,” I said urgently, seizing his clothes and tossing them in his lap. “Men from the king are here. Get dressed.”

Macbeth sat up quickly and stared at me, even as he pulled on his shirt. “Who?”

“Angus and Ross,” I explained, attempting to tidy our tent to a point that would not arouse the suspicions of the two men. “They have heard the news of the battle, but I don’t know why they’ve come.”

“Perhaps they’ve come to make me another thane,” Macbeth replied jokingly, standing now, mostly clothed. I thought of the box Ross carried and could not hold back a shiver. Macbeth saw this and took my face in his hands, a frown on his lips. “What is wrong?” he asked in a murmur.

I covered his hands with my own, gazing up at him. “I do not trust those women.”

I could see that Macbeth wanted to laugh. His mouth twisted in a way that I was familiar with, but he held back and pressed a kiss to my mouth. “Nor do I, love. Come. Fetch the messengers.”

I sighed and went to the tent flap, holding it open for the two men who waited outside. “Please do come in, my lords.”

Ross and Angus filed past me into the tent I shared with Macbeth, who had set up the two stools for them to rest on. Angus sat, looking weary from travel, but Ross remained standing and faced Macbeth.

“The king has heard of the honor with which you fought today, Lord Macbeth,” Ross said importantly. “Both you and Banquo have shown yourselves true to the king and to Scotland, time and again. Therefore the king has decided to bestow upon you Cawdor, and bid me call you thane of Cawdor, and Glamis.” He removed the box from his back and withdrew a pressed satin cloth: the mark of the thane of Cawdor.

Macbeth stared at the cloth, his eyes occasionally flashing to my terrified ones. Finally he spoke.

“But the thane of Cawdor still lives.” It was a question on both our minds, though Macbeth formed it as a statement.

“Not any more, he doesn’t!” Angus said exuberantly. He looked positively cheerful. “Executed this morning! Treason, it was, much to the king’s fury. But you--” and he wagged a finger at Macbeth. “You are the sword in his scabbard, and he would reward you.”

“The king asks that you come to him tomorrow, to the palace at Forres,” said Ross, returning the box to his back as Macbeth took the cloth. “We will ride with you, if you don’t mind. The journey would be too long to make tonight, and we are tired.”

Macbeth was silent, staring down at the fabric in his hands. “Of course,” I jumped in, hoping they would ascribe his silence to the shock of receiving this new honor. “We will see you in the morning. Be sure that the guards see to your horses.”

“In the morning then,” Ross said. “And my congratulations to you, Lord Macbeth, thane of Glamis and Cawdor!”

“Hail, Macbeth!” Angus cheered, his voice loud in the small tent. The movement of his rise covered my own jolt of shock. I raised the tent flap for them again and bid them good night, returning our space to silence again, though of a different kind now.

“Macbeth?” I went to his side and stared down at the satin he clutched in his hands. It was beautiful, to be sure, of a quality that only the king and his thanes could ever hope to see. “Are you all right?”

“This is coincidence,” he whispered. “Surely this is coincidence. The women in the woods had some foreknowledge of Ross and Angus’ coming.” He did not need me to point out that they would not have had time to intercept such news, so soon after the battle’s end did we come across them. “But if it isn’t…” He trailed off, eyes still locked on the fabric of his new title.

I knew Macbeth’s ambition. We had grown up together, close as brothers until we discovered a new kind of love. When his father had declared him fit to begin training with weapons, a hunger had awoken in his eyes that had never gone out. 

_ You’ll be a great man, my son _ ,  _ perhaps even king someday! If Duncan has no children, the crown could pass to you. _

Those words had inspired him, fueling him to master the sword. When Duncan’s line was secured, when Malcolm was born, that fire had died a little, but as Malcolm grew and his honor was stained by his actions, the hope had grown again inside him.

_ Thou shalt be king hereafter _ .

But Duncan still lived, as did Malcolm. Only their deaths would bring to fruition the final prophecy of the witches. For witches they had to be.

“Coincidence or not,” I said, taking his face in my hands. “This honor is yours now, without your taking action. If you are meant to be king, that will also come to you. God forbid that Duncan and his son die, but if they do, as his cousin you will be king and the witches’ words will have no further meaning.”

Macbeth’s mouth twitched as he stared into my face. “If all they have to do is die…” he said quietly, almost to himself. I squeezed him in my hands.

“Do not think such things.” For I had already thought them, knowing they would be on his mind as well. “You are Lord Macbeth, twice thane, and such thoughts are beneath you.” When his eyes still seemed focused far away, I shook him, fear spasming through me. “Do you hear me?”

Macbeth brought his attention back to me, saw the anxiety in my expression. He smiled, face relaxing. “I hear you, Banquo. Forgive me. This has been a strange day and I...forgot myself.”

I allowed my lover to pull me close, forgetting for a time the fear that had threatened me. But I knew he would not put down his thoughts so easily.


End file.
